


What if we ruin it all

by dropshipheroes



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, F/M, Happy Ending, Modern AU, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 05:43:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3163403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dropshipheroes/pseuds/dropshipheroes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy and Clarke break up on a Saturday.</p><p>What comes next, through the eyes of everyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What if we ruin it all

***

Bellamy and Clarke break up on a Saturday.

It ends in fire, the sort of big nasty fight they’ve been dancing around having for months now. The kind of fight you can only have with someone you’ve loved, because loving has given you the ability to pick every word, every argument, with the intention of causing maximum pain. Only someone who knows you can mortally wound you with words alone.

_If you’re so unhappy why don’t you do something with your life?! Don’t blame me for wanting more for myself._

That it happens on the front porch of the Blake house during what is ostensibly a party to celebrate Clarke’s graduation from medical school is inconvenient, if only because it means all of their friends are huddled inside, alternating between blatant eavesdropping and awkwardly pretending they can’t hear anything at all.

_Just because the world’s handed you everything on a silver platter doesn’t give you a pass for being a bitch!_

It doesn’t help that they’ve all been drinking, so filters are off and emotions are high. 

_God you always twist everything, do you have to be such an ass all the time? I want you to want more for yourself, why is that so bad!_

Octavia takes a hesitant step towards the door, but Raven stops her with a hand on her arm and a small shake of her head. 

_Because you don’t care about my dreams, you only care about me following you after yours!_

Jasper and Murphy wince in sync, though they aren’t looking at each other and don’t notice.

_How can you say that, when I’ve given you everything, supported you on every choice you’ve made? I’ve given you all of me Bellamy, can you say the same?_

No one is looking at each other anymore, all of them glancing at corners, the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but at each other.

_Everything?! You’re going to Boston. You’re leaving. You’ll be gone, O’s running off and getting married, and I have NOTHING Clarke. Nothing!_

Octavia starts to cry and Lincoln has to walk her back to the kitchen where the voices don’t carry as well to calm her down.

_Come with me then! I’ve asked you to come, don’t pretend like I’m leaving you when you’re the one that wants to stay._

Raven and Finn huddle together by the fireplace, having entire conversations with their eyes, an ability that comes from having known each other their whole lives. Mostly that conversation seems to consist of relief that their own break up hadn’t been this explosive or this public.

_And what am I supposed to do in Boston? Be your arm candy at events? Keep your house?_

Though the truth is it also makes Raven a little sad, because the quiet way she and Finn ended makes her wonder if he ever loved her half as much as she wanted him to. 

_They have bars in Boston! You can work in one there as easily as you can here!_

Miller runs soothing fingers across Monty’s knuckles when Bellamy laughs loud and angry. His boyfriend hates it when anyone fights, and Miller can feel him shaking.

_See? You admit that you think that’s my future – just stuck behind a bar._

Monty tucks his head into Miller’s shoulder, whispers, “Let’s never fight like that okay?” Miller nods, holds him tighter.

_I never said that! Fine, you don’t want to come to Boston? Then I’ll stay. If you ask me to, if you’ll for once tell me how you feel about me, I’ll give it all up. I’ll stay here. Just tell me!_

Jasper and Murphy eye each other awkwardly across the coffee table. It’s no secret that in the event this is actually it, that Bellamy and Clarke are actually at an end, they will end up on opposite sides of the thing. Jasper is always gonna take Clarke’s side and Murphy will fall on Bellamy’s. They’ve only started to become sort-of friends on their own, so it is weird to hear what could be the end of that happening outside.

_You know how I feel about you._

There is a sudden hush and everyone holds their breath.

_Do I?_

After that the voices get quieter. Octavia and Lincoln come back in from the kitchen and everyone waits to see what is coming next. It’s quiet, so quiet that when the front door slams they all jump in unison.

When Bellamy walks into the living room his eyes are red and he looks exhausted.

“Somebody drive her home,” he says quietly. He sounds defeated. Broken. “Please.”

Jasper moves first, grabs his keys and both of their coats and is out the door without a backward glance. Everyone else is still frozen, unsure what to do. Bellamy won’t look any of them in the eye.

“I’m going to bed,” he says eventually, and his voice is still too calm, too empty.

“Bell-“ Octavia starts to say but he cuts her off with a wave of his hand,

“Not tonight, O,” he says, and leaves the room.

They can hear the sound of a car engine starting up outside, and all watch as the headlights of Jasper’s car cut across the living room wall through the front window as he backs out of the drive.

***

**LINCOLN**

“I think it’s really over this time.”

Octavia whispers the words against his chest, snuggling in deeper to his embrace as he holds her in the kitchen, the end of the morning sunlight streaming in through the curtains and belying the storm clouds hovering inside the house. She’s spent the past hour in Bellamy’s room, trying to cajole him into coming out for a late breakfast, or at least into talking to her.

“They fight a lot,” Lincoln reminds her. In truth this feels different though, and the words don’t seem to soothe Octavia much.

“Not like this.” She’s shakes her head and pulls back to look up at his face. “I’ve never seen him like this, Lincoln. He just looks so _sad_.”

Lincoln doesn’t really know what to say. He knows that Octavia, hell all of the rest of their friends, have always been so sure that Clarke and Bellamy are in it for the long haul and while Lincoln has never had any reason to doubt it he also knows that they are still relatively young and that the odds of a relationship being forever aren’t usually as good as people think. Then again, he’s pretty sure the girl in his arms is his forever so maybe he isn’t the cynical bastard he used to think he’d always be.

And he cares about Bellamy _and_ Clarke, of course he does, but the truth is what really matters to him right now is how upset Octavia is by the whole thing.

“It’ll be okay,” he tells her more firmly this time. “They always work it out in the end.”

“I hope so,” she says sadly.

“Hope what?” Bellamy asks, suddenly at the doorway of the kitchen looking like death warmed over and glaring at Lincoln, though Lincoln is pretty sure that’s out of habit more than anything else.

“That we still have enough eggs to make French toast,” Lincoln says smoothly, disentangling himself from Octavia to move to the fridge and poke around with purpose.

Bellamy grunts and shuffles over to the coffee maker.

“Do you want to eat with us Bell?” Octavia asks hopefully but Bellamy is already shaking his head before she can finish the question.

“Not hungry,” he mumbles. “I gotta get in the shower anyway, my shift starts at two.”

He avoids his sister’s gaze, wordlessly accepts the cream when Lincoln passes it his way. There is something muted about him this morning, dull, like all the shine has gone out of him. Lincoln used to think he could stand a little less fire in the guy who’s little sister he was dating but with it now extinguished he finds he would welcome a snarky remark or two instead of this blank space where Bellamy used to be.

“It’s hardly past eleven,” Octavia says, moving in to lay a hand on Bellamy’s arm. He shrugs it off and moves back toward the doorway.

“Another time Octavia.”

He turns to leave and Octavia looks a Lincoln plaintively, like he might have some solution here. He wishes he did, for her sake. Before Bellamy can leave the kitchen Octavia moves though, wrapping her arms around him from behind so that her cheek presses in against his back and her arms loop under his own.

Bellamy stills, arms held away from his body almost comically and coffee cup suspended in front of him, and a look of pain - so sharp Lincoln feels it in his own chest - on his face. Lincoln can tell that Octavia is crying again, doesn’t know if her tears are what shakes Bellamy’s frame or if it is the force of the man holding back his own.

After a minute she releases him and Bellamy turns and pulls her in to a quick one-armed hug, plants a kiss against her hair.

“Thanks O,” he murmurs before pulling away and gently pushing her towards Lincoln.

Octavia lets him leave this time, curls back up against Lincoln’s chest and lets him hold her for a while before asking him to make her French toast.

 

***

**MONTY**

It’s been five days and no one has heard from Clarke. Well, Raven’s seen her obviously as they share an apartment, but even she hasn’t gotten much more than a word or two out of the girl. Monty’s texted her a handful of times, has called once every day, but he’s starting to worry.

Miller has been with Bellamy nearly constantly, and Monty worries about him too. This whole thing is such a mess, and he knows it’s selfish but he sort of wishes his own boyfriend were around a little more to help him feel better about it. He isn’t angry though, knows that Miller is where he is needed even if he’s not where _Monty_ needs him, and so on the fifth day since that horrible party Monty decides there are places he is needed too.

Raven lets him into the apartment on her way out, heading to work.

“She’s in her room,” she tells him without preamble. “See if you can get her to eat something, would ya?”

He nods and waves goodbye when she starts down the stairs, shutting the door quietly behind him. The apartment is silent and Monty finds himself practically tip-toeing to Clarke’s door, afraid to break the stillness of it. He knocks softly and waits for an answer that doesn’t come before opening the door and peering in.

“Clarke? It’s Monty.”

She’s an indistinguishable lump in the bed, quilt pulled up over her ears in the darkness. He wonders for a moment if she’s asleep, but then the lump shifts and her blond head pokes out over the edge of the blanket.

“Hi,” she says, and it’s more broken sound than word. She sniffs once and then hiccups on a sob and Monty hurries to her side, sliding without hesitation under the covers with her and gathering her close.

He and Clarke hug often, they are both good at the physical reassurance of it and it has never felt strange to hold her or snuggle into her side, let her snuggle into his. He’s pretty sure Bellamy only lets him get away with it because he knows Monty has no romantic or sexual interest in Clarke, that she’s more sister to him than anything. Though now that he’s holding this tear-soaked girl in his arms he realizes Bellamy wouldn’t be the one stopping him anyway, not now that they’re broken up.

And that makes him sad enough to hold her tighter and shed a few tears of his own. He can feel her heartbreak in her grasping fingers, her muffled, coughing cries, and it echoes in that place inside of him that feels too much, empathizes too much, with everyone. He doesn’t want her to be hurting like this, and doesn’t know how to fix it, so he just holds her until she stops crying and then a little longer after that.

When she’s still again, breathing evenly though he can tell she is still awake, he breaks the silence.

“You smell really bad Clarke.”

It’s mostly true, she doesn’t smell great certainly, but he says it to get her to laugh more than anything and is rewarded when she does.

“Shut up,” she says around a smile, poking at his stomach right where she knows he’s most ticklish.

It’s his turn to laugh, and she does it again, grin hovering near the corner of her mouth like she wants to smile but is afraid if she does it will all fall apart again. He catches her hand in his and gives it a squeeze.

“You want to take a shower? And I’ll make us grilled cheese.”

She hesitates but nods against his chest after a moment and it feels like a victory.

“With the white cheddar?” she asks quietly, sounding like she is straining for normal and almost succeeding.

“Duh,” he tells her eliciting another almost smile.

He slides out of bed and she follows after, hugs him one more time and then heads for the bathroom. When he hears the water start he turns towards the kitchen.

She comes out half an hour later, hair hanging wet and loose around her shoulders and wearing an over-large grey shirt that Monty doesn’t comment on even though he knows who’s it is. They eat grilled cheese and she lets him braid her hair, and in return he lets her go back to bed after, doesn’t even try to cajole her into a movie or game. When he checks on her later, once the dishes are done and the kitchen tidied, she lifts the blanket for him and he slides back in beside her.

“Thanks,” she whispers against his chest and he hugs her close, knowing without a doubt that this is where he is supposed to be.

 

***

 **MILLER**

The text comes at the absolute worst moment, right when Miller is about to finally, _finally_ get the drop on Bellamy during hour six of their Call of Duty marathon. 

The buzz against his leg distracts him and gives Bellamy the chance to shoot his avatar in the head instead with a cackle of glee. So Miller is already frowning before he even sees who the text is from. When he does his mood dips even further south.

He hasn’t really talked to Clarke since the break up, and though he knows it isn’t her fault, not entirely, his loyalty is still to the man on the couch beside him. Not that Bellamy has asked him to take sides, in fact they haven’t really discussed the situation at all, but Miller has still been avoiding Clarke for the past few weeks in any case. He figures it’s the least he can do for his friend who is still so very clearly hurting. Well, that and volunteering his time to things like all day video game marathons. (It’s a selfless act, honestly. He should get a medal or something.) So the fact that she’s texted him makes him nervous, like he’s betraying his friend.

Bellamy pauses the game while Miller stares at his phone, and shakes the beer can in his hand so that it rattles emptily.

“Who’s texting you that has you looking so serious?” Bellamy asks easily, tossing aside the can and reaching for the bag of chips on the coffee table instead.

Miller blinks quickly, shoving the phone back into his pocket and trying to look nonchalant. “No one. I mean, um, it’s just Monty, wanting to know if I’m coming over later.”

Bellamy looks skeptical but doesn’t question him. Instead he stands up and vaults over the back of the couch to head into Miller’s tiny apartment kitchen in search of more beer. He holds a can up in Miller’s direction, and when Miller shakes his head at the offer he shrugs and cracks it open for himself.

“If you need to go…” Bellamy says, returning to the couch and still looking at Miller like he’s trying to figure him out.

“Nah,” Miller shakes his head again and picks up his controller. “I can’t stomach the thought of letting you win.”

Bellamy smiles more genuinely at that and picks up his own controller, setting the beer on the coffee table instead. Miller tries to smile back though he’s pretty sure it’s a poor job, and settles into the rhythm of the game, trying to put all thoughts of his friend’s ex out of his mind. 

He ignores Clarke’s texts for a few days, not out of spite but because he really isn’t sure why she wants to talk to him but he is sure he doesn’t want to get in the middle of whatever is going on here any more than he already is. 

He and Bellamy play a lot of video games instead, and it is only when even Miller starts to think they are smelling a little ripe that he decides they ought to venture outside the confines of his apartment for once. Bellamy could use a night out, Miller thinks. Could use a few beers outside his living room, could even stand to have a few pretty girls hit on him, because the longer they sit here and _don’t_ talk about it the more Miller can feel his friend’s sadness filling up the room around them.

Bellamy grumbles, makes about a million excuses, and then gives in with a sigh when it is clear Miller won’t take no for an answer. Miller sends him home to shower and change with instructions to be ready in an hour and when Bellamy leaves heads into his own room to do the same himself. He’s just getting out of the shower when he hears his phone buzz again and with a sigh looks down at the screen to see Clarke’s name once more.

He wishes that their group wasn’t so damned intertwined, wishes that after the break-up he could just cut Clarke out of his life cleanly for Bellamy’s sake, but the truth is he can’t. He can’t hate her or ignore her because she is his friend too, has been for years now, and he knows that she is hurting just as much. He isn’t going to be her shoulder to cry on, but he figures he can at least do her the courtesy of talking to her, and he might as well get it over with.

So he texts back, says he’ll be over in fifteen but that he doesn’t have a lot of time. If the guilt he feels at going to see her on the way to take Bellamy out bothers him, well, he can always drink that away later.

She answers the door in her pajamas, hair in a messy bun on top of her head and eyes red rimmed and puffy. She gives him a watery smile when she invites him in but doesn’t try to hug him as she usually would, so Miller figures she knows just as well as he where the lines have been drawn between them.

“Thanks for coming,” she says and her voice is tired, scratchy. 

Miller wonders if she’s been sleeping (he knows Bellamy isn’t) and decides he’ll ask Monty to check on her later. His boyfriend, too, has ended up choosing sides even though there aren’t really sides to choose, and he just hopes it doesn’t spill over into their own relationship that they are on different ones.

“Sure,” he says uneasily, “I can’t stay long-“

“That’s fine.” She cuts him off quickly, moving deeper into the apartment to the dining area and picking up a box off the table. “I really only wanted to ask you to take this.”

She hands him the box, and Miller takes it automatically, staring down at the contents with a blank look until the dim light of comprehension sinks in sickeningly. What at first looks like a random assortment of objects starts to make sense as soon as he catches sight of the bracelet on top, a silver chain with a small stethoscope charm hanging from it that Miller knows Bellamy gave her when she got into med school.

After that it is easy to see that the grey shirt it is resting on is one of Bellamy’s as well, and that underneath that is a motley assortment of gifts and belongings all of which are from his friend. Miller tries to hand the box back as soon as he realizes what it is he’s holding but Clarke has already backed away and has her arms firmly wrapped around her stomach.

“Clarke…”

“Please, Nate,” she says and he’s suddenly terrified she might start crying. “I need it gone. If we’re done, I need to be done.”

“What am I supposed to do with this?” he asks helplessly.

“Give it back to him, throw it away, I don’t care,” she says, though it is clear even to him that she cares too much. “I just don’t want it here anymore.”

He stands there in her dining room frozen for a moment, wishing he had never come, while she sniffles and holds back brimming tears. He doesn’t want this responsibility, just wants to leave the box and the girl and go help his friend pick up the pieces of himself, but Clarke is his friend too and she is just as broken as Bellamy.

With a resigned sigh he shifts the box to get a better grip and turns toward the door.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says behind him, and he isn’t sure if she means for what she’s asking of him or for what has happened between her and Bellamy. It doesn’t really matter either way, because it doesn’t change anything.

“We’re all sorry, Clarke,” he tells her and it sounds harsher and more tired than he means it to but he doesn’t take it back and she doesn’t balk at his tone.

She just follows him to the door, holds it open for him until he is back in the hallway, and gives him a crooked little smile that looks more forlorn than anything as she shuts the door behind him.

He thinks about ditching the box.

It would be easy to just shove it in his trunk and forget about it, to toss it in a dumpster on his drive over to the Blake house. Less heartache for everyone that way, maybe. But it would feel like a lie, and as much as it is going to hurt his friend to see it maybe that is what Bellamy needs to start moving on. Clarke was right about one thing, if they are going to be done they need to be _done_. 

Miller wishes he believed that was possible, but if it ever is going to be this is probably how it starts. So when he gets to the house he takes a deep breath, mans up, and carries the box to the door with him.

Bellamy answers in jeans and an unbuttoned shirt, hair still damp from the shower and curling a little around his ears.

“You’re early,” he accuses with the ghost of a smile, a shadow of where a smile might be really, which just makes what Miller is about to do to him worse.

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Come on in,” Bellamy invites, stepping out of the way so that Miller can move through. He eyes the box inquisitively as Miller passes, following him into the living room and walking over to where Miller sets it on the couch. “What’d you got there?”

“Um,” Miller says.

He doesn’t have to elaborate, can tell the exact moment Bellamy realizes what he is looking at. Bellamy’s entire body goes still, hands frozen where they had been fastening a button on his shirt, his eyes widening. Miller winces.

“Oh,” Bellamy says numbly after a moment.

“Clarke asked me to stop by,” Miller hurries to fill the silence. “I didn’t know what she wanted, but she asked me to take it and…”

“It’s okay,” Bellamy cuts him off, voice brisk. “You don’t have to explain.”

“I can toss it if you want,” Miller offers, already reaching for the box again and berating himself for ever thinking this was a good idea.

“No,” Bellamy shoots out a hand to stop him and lifts the box himself. “It’s fine Nate. No big deal.”

Miller looks at him skeptically but Bellamy ignores his eyebrow and hefts the box up instead. 

“Really. I’m just gonna stick this in my room and then we can go out. Just give me a sec, yeah?”

Miller nods slowly, feeling like he ought to argue but not really knowing what about, and watches as Bellamy heads toward the hall. It’s quiet for a long minute as he waits and then there is a loud crack that cuts through the air and the wall along the back of the living room shakes a little.

When Miller runs through the door of Bellamy’s room there is a hole in the plaster of the wall and Bellamy is staring at his fist, all cut up and bloodied, with a detachment that scares Miller a little. The box is on its side on the floor, contents spilling out across the carpet, and Miller freezes, unsure what to do.

“Bellamy?” he asks and his friend looks up sharply.

“It’s fine,” Bellamy tells him even though it clearly isn’t.

“Let me see,” Miller says and steps forward to reach for his friend’s hand.

“Really, it’s fine,” Bellamy insists, pulling his fist away. “I just need a jacket and we can go.”

He’s bleeding still though and Miller is pretty sure the gash across his knuckles is going to need stitches.

“Bellamy,” he says again, more firmly this time. Bellamy sighs. “Come on, I’ll drive you to the emergency room.”

It isn’t exactly the night out Miller had planned, though Bellamy does end up getting hit on by a cute nurse while having his hand stitched up. It doesn’t seem to matter much though, because when she makes him relax his fist so she can clean the wound Miller sees the flash of silver that spills out of it and onto the tray, and Bellamy doesn’t take his eyes off the damn bracelet the whole time, even as his skin is being pulled back together one stitch at a time.

 

***

**MURPHY**

By the time he gets to the bar she is practically asleep against it, and he thinks all things considered it could be a lot worse.

“Thanks man,” he calls behind the bar to Sterling, getting a nod of acknowledgement from the bartender who looks relieved to see Clarke go.

“Hey Princess, how about you and me take a walk?” he asks her, keeps his tone friendly even though he kind of wants to shake her for being so stupid.

She looks up at him with those big blue eyes though, tears still clinging to her bottom lashes, and any frustration he had over being called at two in the morning to pick her up from this dive drains out of him.

“C’mon,” he sighs, gets an arm around her and hauls her up. “Time to go home.”

She leans heavily into his side the whole way out to the car, head tilted against his shoulder and arm around his waist clinging tight. He manages to get the passenger door open while keeping his grip on her but when he turns her to try and maneuver her inside she falls forward against his chest instead and hugs him.

For a moment he is frozen, standing on a curb in the not-so-great part of town with a tiny blond force of nature clinging to him. He’s never been good at the physical side of friendship, and most days he’s pretty sure Clarke barely tolerates him, so it’s not like they’ve done this. Like, ever.

Before he can get it together enough to hug her back she leans away though, slouching into her seat and tucking her legs away from the door so he can shut it. He tries not to feel disappointed as he jogs around to his own side of the car and climbs in.

Clarke is quiet most of the way home. She’s kept her face turned away from him, forehead pressed to the cool glass of the window and her arms wrapped tight around herself. He fights the urge to reach over and tug at them until they fall loose, to untangle her and take her hand in his own. Not only would she probably not welcome the gesture but he’s not sure he even knows how to do this – how to comfort someone.

He’s turning onto her street when she speaks.

“How’d you know where I was?”

Her voice, loud in the hushed dark of the cabin, startles him and he overcorrects coming out of the turn. When he’s back on his side of the road he answers her, sort of.

“Sterling called.”

“Why would he call you?” she asks, face screwed up in the kind of visible confusion only drunks and very young children wear.

The thing is, he doesn’t really want to un-confuse her. Because Sterling, of course, had not called _him_. In this town everyone knew who to call when Clarke was in trouble.

She figures it out before he has to voice it.

“He called Bellamy.”

Murphy winces and keeps his eyes firmly on the road, avoiding her gaze.

“Didn’t he?”

“Clarke-“

“And what? Bellamy figured he’d send you to do his dirty work? Because god forbid he leave me there like any normal ex-boyfriend would. Instead I’m just another mess he has to clean up now, aren’t I?”

“It wasn’t-“

“Aren’t I?!”

Of course, because he is an idiot, this is where he decides to try and take her hand after all. 

“It wasn’t like that, he still cares about you…” he starts but she pulls her hand away with a huff of disgust and her next words are laced with enough venom to kill.

“I hate you! Why couldn’t you just leave me there? I hate you for coming, I hate you for seeing me like this, I hate you I hate you I hate you!”

Murphy sighs, a tightness in his chest that feels like borrowed pain. Because he knows she’s not really screaming at him, she’s screaming at Bellamy. And he knows she’s doing it precisely because she doesn’t really hate Bellamy at all, which is what makes this whole thing so goddamned tragic.

It would be easier if they did hate each other, he thinks, but they don’t. They probably never will, even if they never speak to each other again he’s pretty sure the way they feel about each other will never be over.

When he pulls up to the curb outside her apartment she turns and hits at him with her fists instead of her words. It doesn’t hurt, not really, he knows how to take a punch – has taken worse than this before. And this is something he can do for her. He can’t hold her hand but he can let her hit him, can let her take out her anger and despair against his body. It feels calming somehow, to finally know what he can give.

Eventually she runs out of steam, falls forward against his shoulder at an awkward angle across the seats and sobs against him. He puts a hand against her back, holds her close and whispers nonsense syllables into her hair, and finds, surprisingly, that this is something he can give too. 

***

**JASPER**

Jasper is drunk. Like, really really drunk.

He’s pretty damn happy about it too, all things considered. It’s a Friday night, he’s got nowhere to be in the morning, and Harper (the hot bartender who works shifts with Bellamy sometimes) hasn’t cut him off or kicked him out yet which is a miracle.

“It’s a miracle!” he tells her, because he can’t seem to find the part of his brain that filters thought from speech, and it’s important she know she’s part of this miraculous night for him.

“That you’re still sitting upright? Yeah it is,” she agrees, rolling her eyes and pulling the half full glass away from his reaching fingers.

“Hey now, I wasn’t done with that!” he complains, but considering he nearly tips off the barstool trying to reach for it she may have a point.

“Here, drink this instead,” she says and pushes a pint glass of water under his nose. 

He sighs but takes a deep drink from the glass, just to make her happy. She’s really, really hot and though she has laughed at every one of his advances so far he thinks he just might be wearing her down.

She laughs at him when half the water spills down his shirt, but it’s a nice laugh, more with him than at him, so he grins back. Which makes it even more surprising when her face falls into something approaching dread.

“Shit,” she says and throws her bar rag at him to clean himself off before moving down to the opposite end of the bar.

Jasper mops at the front of his shirt for a moment before it occurs to him to turn and see where she’s gone, and that’s when he sees Bellamy. Bellamy, who, it appears, is also spectacularly drunk and currently the cause of Harper’s frown.

“Bellamy, seriously this is like the third night in a row,” she’s telling him, leaning close and trying to keep her voice low.

“So what? I’m not allowed to drink now? It’s okay if I serve the alcohol but not if I drink the alcohol?” he asks sullenly. 

He’s not being over loud or aggressive but Jasper is pretty sure he’s supposed to be mad at Bellamy about something, and he’s also pretty sure that it’s all Bellamy’s fault Harper isn’t over here laughing with him still, so he pushes himself up to stumble toward the guy.

“I don’t care if you want to drink,” Harper tells him, voice quiet but severe, “But I do care when you come in here to pick up girls that then come back every night asking me when you’re on shift again, or worse who come in when you’re here and cause a scene!”

That doesn’t sound right to Jasper, because Bellamy isn’t supposed to pick up girls, is he? Because of Clarke. But thinking of Clarke is all it takes to remind Jasper why exactly he is supposed to be mad at Bellamy, even though he’s pretty sure he isn’t mad so much as sad, but it all feels about the same right now.

“Hey!” he says and Harper looks up at him, grimace thinning out her expression.

“Jasper go drink your water,” she says tiredly, but Jasper ignores her and pushes into Bellamy’s face instead.

“Hey, you, buddy,” he says poking a finger into Bellamy’s chest. 

Bellamy apparently is _not_ quite as drunk as Jasper, because he grabs the finger with surprising dexterity and glares at its owner.

“What the hell are you doing Jas?” he asks fiercely.

He looks like shit, honestly, and for a moment Jasper is so distracted by the thought that he forgets again why he came over here. Bellamy has two days worth of stubble along his jaw, he’s got dark circles under his eyes that make them almost look bruised, and there is a desperate sort of anger in his gaze that makes Jasper’s stomach twist and sobers him up a little.

“What the hell are _you_ doing?” he answers when it becomes clear that Bellamy is waiting for one.

Bellamy drops his finger and scoffs at him, turning away like it isn’t worth his time to have this conversation, which just pisses Jasper off.

“I asked you a question!” he says, voice rising sharply until Harper shushes him.

“And I don’t owe you an answer,” Bellamy sneers.

“Can you both just knock it off?” Harper sighs.

“He broke my friend’s heart!” Jasper tells her, and Harper just looks at him like he’s an idiot.

“Yeah well she broke mine,” Bellamy grumbles. He’s not looking at Jasper anymore, is just staring down at the bar top. Harper sighs again, but pulls down a bottle of whiskey and pours a generous glass, pushes it in front of Bellamy.

Jasper gives her an offended glare because why does Bellamy get more alcohol when he’s been cut off? It hardly seems fair. Harper rolls her eyes at him before ignoring him again and leaning back across the bar to talk to Bellamy in a hushed tone.

“I get it, it sucks,” she tells him and Jasper hangs on her every word, watches Bellamy’s face sour and crumple as she speaks. “But what you’re doing here? Isn’t gonna help any. It might feel good for a minute, or an hour, or even a night. Might even feel like you’re getting back at her for hurting you, but Bellamy all you’re doing is fucking things up for yourself.”

“Gee thanks Dr. Phil,” Bellamy grouses taking another sip of his drink.

“I’m serious,” Harper insists, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him.

“Yeah, well, hate to break it to you kiddo but you’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You think you’re the only one to ever have your heart broken Bellamy Blake?” she asks, an edge in her voice that Jasper has never heard before and that makes him sit up and take notice.

The tone seems to have affected Bellamy too, and he sits up a little straighter and looks a little sorry, though of course he doesn’t actually say so.

“Like I said,” Harper continues, softer again now that the point’s been made, “It sucks. But you aren’t gonna get over her by drowning yourself in one-night stands and whiskey.”

“Not even good whiskey?” Bellamy asks with an almost smile.

“Nope, sorry,” she tells him. “All that does is make you sad _and_ broke.”

Bellamy half laughs at that, mouth tilted up at the corner but eyes still cast down. He’s quiet for a moment, and Jasper is pretty sure they’ve both forgotten he’s here. When Bellamy speaks again his voice is so low Jasper almost doesn’t hear him.

 

“Most days it feels like I can’t even breathe without her.”

He sounds wrecked, shattered, sounds like the words should be spilling blood from his mouth along with them, and all Jasper can think about is the look in Clarke’s eyes the night he drove her home. 

“How am I supposed to do this?” Bellamy asks and Harper takes his hand in her own. Jasper isn’t even jealous.

Harper, miraculous though she is, doesn’t seem to have an answer and Jasper certainly doesn’t have one either. He doesn’t even really know how to feel about hearing the confession, since he’s been so adamant about being on Clarke’s side about the whole thing. Though it seems rather silly now to have felt that way, even to his booze-soaked brain, as clearly there aren’t really any sides at all – just two broken people.

Bellamy drinks his whiskey and ignores Jasper, slides a twenty to Harper when he’s done and waves off any change. Jasper thinks he might leave then, thinks this will be the end of the strange encounter, but Bellamy just smiles sadly at them both and then turns the false grin up a little higher and wanders over to a giggling group of co-eds in the corner instead. 

Harper watches him go with a look of resignation, and they both wince when they hear Bellamy’s insincere laughter across the room. Jasper doesn’t feel so great anymore, doesn’t fight Harper when she slides him another glass of water along with a couple aspirin. Mostly he just feels sad, and tired, and like love isn’t really worth all this pain. 

Bellamy leaves not too long after with a girl on either arm and a heaviness in his step, and Jasper hopes he forgets all of this tomorrow because he doesn’t want to have to face Clarke again knowing what he now does. Not that he’ll ever tell her, she’s already as bruised as Bellamy is, no need to compound it.

“It’ll get better,” Harper tells him, which isn’t exactly an answer to any of his thoughts, but he appreciates the sentiment all the same.

“I’m not so sure,” he tells her honestly, resting his chin in his hands and watching her restock the garnish bins.

“Well it can’t get any worse,” she argues, and Jasper really hopes she’s right about that.

 

***

**FINN**

It’s been a good day. 

He and Raven have been trying to spend more time together lately, still rebuilding the friendship he almost broke completely years ago when he couldn’t find it in himself to choose between her and Clarke and ended up hurting them both. One of the ways they are doing that is watching old soccer matches together on the weekends, and today has been a good one. If Clarke were home, grumping at them to be quiet from the dining room, medical books spread out around her, it would be a perfect one.

Finn doesn’t really care too much about soccer but Raven does, so he always roots for the opposite team just to get her trash talking and smiling like he remembers her doing when they were younger. He loves her, not the way she wanted him to maybe, not the way he could have loved Clarke, but love nonetheless and it lights him up to see her yelling at the refs and throwing popcorn in his face.

The four beers he’s had help with the lighting up too, and Raven is currently grumbling at him for drinking more than his share of her stash.

“I’m gonna have to go get more now, you dick,” she tells him, kicking at his legs on the couch.

“I’ll go,” he offers easily but she shakes her head and rolls off the couch gracefully.

“Nah, I’m still good to drive,” she tells him, already shrugging on her red coat. “I’ll just run down to the gas station on 3rd and be back quick. It’ll be faster than letting you walk.”

“I’ll ride with you, if you want.”

“I’ll be back before you manage to find your shoes,” she teases fondly, hand already on the doorknob.

“Rude,” he accuses and she laughs before slipping out into the hall.

He flips channels for a while, feeling the warm buzz of the last beer setting in nicely. It’s late but not too late, and he thinks they can probably get through at least one more match before she thinks about kicking him out. Maybe she’ll let him crash on the couch even. It would give him a chance to see Clarke too, in the morning, to see how she’s holding up. From what Raven’s told him it’s been a shitty two months and he worries about her, knows Clarke holds things in as much as possible and lets them break her quietly from the inside out. 

As if his thoughts have summoned her, the door swings open and Clarke stumbles in.

She’s clearly a little tipsy, heels in her hand and her hair spilling out of the pins holding it up, and she smiles at him over-bright when she spots him. She’s beautiful, has always been so goddamn beautiful, and even after all this time it is enough to make him catch his breath.

“Hey, I didn’t know you were coming over,” she says, giggles a little when she stumbles on her way over to the closet to hang up her coat.

“We’re watching soccer,” he explains, standing to help her figure out the hanger when it proves too much for her to do on her own. “Raven went out for more beer.”

“Beer is good,” she agrees seriously, dropping her heels to the floor beside the closet door.

“Apparently,” he teases and touches his finger to her nose, making her go cross eyed and laugh again. He feels her laughter in his skin, buzzing as brightly as the alcohol in his blood. It’s familiar, warm, and makes him think of all the could-have-beens that he tries not to dwell on.

“Where were you, all dressed up like that?” he asks when the danger of getting lost staring at her starts to threaten. If she notices the weight of his gaze she doesn’t comment, just moves toward her bedroom on unsteady legs.

“Had a date,” she calls back, and that sobers him a bit.

“A date?” he asks, voice more than a little stunned.

“Mmhmm,” she says turning to smile at him again when he leans against the doorframe to her bedroom. “Well, sort of a date. I don’t think it’s what either of us really had in mind.”

He gives her a look and she shrugs, leaning over to glance in her vanity mirror and start pulling the pins from her hair so that it tumbles down in a wave of golden curls around her shoulders.

“Raven set me up with this guy from her school,” she says, voice a little muffled by the pins she’s holding in her mouth until she transfers them to her hand and tucks them into a drawer.

“And?”

“ _And_ Wick was very nice, and also very obviously in love with Raven,” she tells him wryly, “I think it had been implied that she would be there too, though he did a good job masking his disappointment.”

“So there won’t be a second date?”

“No,” Clarke shakes her head with a tiny smile and starts trying to get at the zipper on the back of her dress. “We ended up drinking quite a bit and he talked about Raven and let me cry on his shoulder a little about Bellamy and it was all very nice, really, but no second date.”

Finn is surprised to find he feels relieved.

“Here let me help you.” He steps into her room completely, turns her gently and pushes her hands away so that he can reach the zipper himself. He tugs it down slowly, fingers grazing accidentally against her skin as it goes, and this too feels familiar in a long-ago memory sort of way.

This time the weight of the moment is apparent to her too, if her hushed voice is anything to measure by.

“Thanks,” she says softly when the dress is undone, but doesn’t move away and his fingers linger at the small of her back, the expanse of her skin enticing him to trail them upward again though he doesn’t, holds himself together by a thread.

She’s drunk, he’s almost there himself, and he knows this isn’t what he wants it to be. It doesn’t mean he wants her any less though, doesn’t mean the tidal wave of desire and memory and missed chances doesn’t nearly drown him. She smells good, like Clarke, like home, and he finds he can’t stop himself after all, fingers trailing slowly back up her spine.

The dress is slipping off her shoulders and he uses one hand to pull her hair to the side, baring the curve of her neck.

“Clarke,” he says and he’s close enough now to feel her trembling.

She doesn’t answer and he can see in the mirror that her eyes are closed, her hands clenched tight in the material of her dress, and when she sways back against him he sighs and breathes her in.

He’s bending to kiss her shoulder, to start them along a path he’s never quite given up as lost it seems, when she speaks again.

“I miss him so much.”

Her voice is heavy with the threat of tears, raw and lonely, and Finn stops his forward motion, lips hovering a centimeter from her skin so close he can almost taste her.

The front door slams making them both jump and Finn has just enough time to step back before Raven is poking her head into the room.

“Clarke are you home? Wick called and said-“ she’s saying, but trails off when she sees them, Clarke clutching her dress against her chest to keep it from falling off completely and Finn hovering guiltily behind her.

“Finn was just helping me with my zipper,” Clarke says and Raven nods, accepts it though she turns to glare at Finn.

“Well good. Why don’t you put on some pajamas while I talk to Finn, and then you and I have a pint of mint chocolate chip with our names on it,” Raven says, voice gentle for Clarke but her eyes hard on him.

Clarke gives her a watery smile and a nod and Raven drags him from the room by his wrist, fingers clenched too tight around it.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she hisses at him once they are safely away from Clarke’s door.

“I was just-“ he starts but she cuts him off.

“Don’t bullshit me, Finn,” she tells him severely. He realizes it isn’t jealousy coloring her tone, which he had expected, and he doesn’t know what to do with her concern.

“She’s hurting,” she tells him, not waiting for an answer, “Hurting and vulnerable and drunk, and you are just familiar enough to make her do something she’ll regret.”

“You don’t know that,” he tells her, and he can tell by her glare that she knows he means about the regret part.

“I do know,” she tells him. “Don’t be that guy Finn. Don’t be that selfish.”

He wants to argue. Wants to tell her that he wasn’t trying anything (though he knows he would have), wants to tell her Clarke isn’t as broken as she’s implying (though he knows she is), and most of all wants to argue that she has no way of knowing that Clarke would regret it if something happened between them. What sucks is that he can’t argue with her because deep down under his own want, his own selfish desire, he knows she’s right.

Raven can tell the moment he’s realized it and releases her grip on his arm.

“I should go,” he says, not letting his eyes stray back to the hallway behind them.

“Good idea,” she agrees and follows him to the door.

He grabs his own coat, slides into his shoes, but pauses before he opens the door. “Raven, I didn’t mean,,,”

“I know,” she tells him with a weary sigh. “You never mean to hurt her, or me, or anyone.”

“But I do,” he finishes for her. “Don’t I?”

She looks at him sadly, and he can see the shadow of old pain in her eyes. It isn’t as bright as the kind Clarke’s carrying these days but it is still visible, and he knows he’s the one that put it there.

“I’ll see you next week,” she tells him after a moment. “You bring the beer this time okay?”

It’s an olive branch, one he doesn’t deserve but is still very willing to take.

“Deal.”

He kisses her on the cheek and she lets him. He’s halfway out the door when Clarke reappears, in pajamas with her face scrubbed clean and her eyes just as unguarded and heartbroken as before. She smiles at him too, but it is just a smile not a promise, and Finn thinks he’s going to have to finally accept that she will only ever be his friend.

He thought he’d accepted that before, but maybe he’d only buried deep the hope of a ‘some day’. When he closes the door behind him, the voices of the girls drifting indistinguishable through the crack before it shuts, he decides he’s going to leave that hope here, for her. Because he may not get his some day with her, but he hopes she gets hers.

 

***

**ROMA**

It’s a bit odd, for a first date.

Not that the setting isn’t lovely, an outdoor pavilion in the middle of a field surrounded by trees, all lit up with strings of lanterns over the dance floor and tables and with fireflies flickering in the dusk around them as night falls. The music drifts softly out into the growing dark, the food is surprisingly good, and all in all it is rather romantic, really.

Still, Roma can’t say it isn’t odd, being invited to your date’s sister’s wedding as a first proper outing. But for a guy like Bellamy she’d probably do things a lot stranger than this. 

She’d been surprised when he first asked her, considering they hardly know each other yet. They’d met in a bar during a pub crawl for her sister-in-law’s 21st birthday, when Roma had been a little too drunk to have any inhibitions left and so found herself approaching the gorgeous man who’d been nursing three fingers of Jameson at the bar for the whole hour she’d been there. 

He’d been nice enough, bought her a drink and smiled at her as they talked even though there was a distance in his eyes that never quite went away. When she asked him to come home with her he’d hesitated before agreeing and while that hadn’t stopped her from sleeping with him it _had_ kept her from hoping too hard that he’d ever use the number she programmed into his phone the next morning. 

Which is why it had been a surprise, though a pleasant one, when he’d called nearly a month later and asked if she’d like to be his plus one. And while it’s a little weird being here Roma wants to believe that it could be a good thing too. Her last boyfriend hadn’t even wanted her to meet his mother, so the fact that she’s with Bellamy at his sister’s wedding has to mean _something_ right?

Everyone has been perfectly nice to her all night, but they’ve been a little odd too. She hasn’t missed the significant looks being thrown her way by the handful of guys at the table near the front whom Bellamy had introduced her too when they arrived and who’s names she has forgotten since. The groom had smiled politely at her, and Octavia has been nothing but kind during their brief interactions, but she keeps giving her brother these looks, all heavy disappointment and sadness, that make Bellamy’s jaw go tight.

And then there’s Clarke. 

Even without the tense introduction, Clarke’s smile taut and her eyes refusing to meet Bellamy’s as she said hello to them both, Roma would have known there was a story here. It’s clear in the way Bellamy’s own eyes were locked on Clarke the moment they walked through the door, the way he’d introduced Roma to her like it was an act of defiance, though even Roma could see the guilt hovering over him as he did it. 

It doesn’t help that Clarke is devastatingly pretty, the kind of pretty that Roma is reasonably sure doesn’t rely on the expertly applied makeup, form fitting dress, and heels she is wearing tonight, but probably extends to sweatpants and early mornings as well. The kind of pretty that makes Roma feel uncomfortable in her own dress, suddenly aware of just how long she spent picking out the outfit, feeling too tall and too plain and too desperate, and it is even worse because she knows Clarke isn’t actually trying to make her feel that way. 

It feels like it would be petty and ugly to hate her, just for existing, just for being someone Bellamy obviously has a past with, but Roma kind of does anyway.

Bellamy himself has been a perfect gentleman all evening, which somehow makes it worse. He has fetched her champagne and placed a gentle hand against her back to guide her through the crowd. He’s laughed at her jokes and made sure she felt included in the discussion around the table during the plated dinner, has introduced her to his friends and his family, has done everything she could have expected of him and more, and yet as the evening goes on Roma feels increasingly like a third wheel to her own date. Because all through the smiles and the politeness, through the small touches and the champagne, Bellamy’s eyes never stop drifting around the room until they find Clarke.

Roma doesn’t think he means to do it, which also makes it worse because she’s pretty sure that means it matters more. His eyes follow Clarke as she takes her seat for the ceremony, when she hugs his sister and her new husband with tears in her eyes, when she laughs at something one of the boys says, and when she sits at a table across the floor next to another beautiful girl with dark hair and a dangerous smile (and really, does Bellamy have to know so many gorgeous women? It doesn’t seem fair.) 

He watches Clarke like he can’t help it, like she’s a wound he can’t stop poking, and Roma feels like a too-small band-aid that he’s inexpertly applying to his heart. 

The last hour has gone from odd to awkward, as slowly but surely their table has emptied out with couples drifting to the dance floor and Bellamy’s eyes have strayed more and more to the other side of the room. When Roma excuses herself to use the ladies room he turns back to her and smiles, a soft and sorry grin like he knows he’s being a terrible date. It’s so endearing, that sheepish little-boy look he gives her, that she finds herself wanting to be the one that makes this better for him even though she is pretty sure that way lies heartbreak.

The restroom is empty and she takes a few minutes to compose herself. She stares hard at her reflection in the mirror and tries to convince herself that she’s making mountains out of molehills, that weddings are always weird, that running into an ex is always difficult, that none of tonight means that Bellamy couldn’t be into her. He’d called her after all, hadn’t he? He’d brought her here, and that means something, it _must_.

The pep talk only helps a little, but Roma squares her shoulders and puts on a smile and heads back to the reception determined to get at least one dance from her date _and_ to keep his eyes on her during it. When she reaches the edge of the pavilion though she sees him, and knows all at once that him bringing her here _does_ mean something. Just not what she wants it to.

Bellamy is making his way through the maze of tables, moving toward the one where Clarke is sitting alone now. Roma can’t help but edge around the pavilion, in the shadows outside the circle of light, until she is close enough to hear them when Bellamy reaches Clarke’s side. She’s not sure what is compelling her to spy like this instead of either just announcing her presence or simply leaving, but she feels like she needs some sort of confirmation, of what she isn’t sure but she needs it all the same.

Clarke has been twirling the champagne flute on the table in front of her, watching it with a detached sort of melancholy in her gaze, her shoulders curled in like there is a weight there she cannot shake. When Bellamy approaches she looks up and her blue eyes are wide and startled, lips parting in surprise, and even _that_ looks good on her, the bitch.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” she breathes.

Bellamy isn’t meeting her eyes, staring hard at the glass she’s been spinning instead, and Roma can see his hands are fists at his sides. When he speaks again his voice is gruff and intimate all at once, and it makes Roma think of dark bedrooms and quiet conversations. It makes her ache.

“Would you like to dance?”

Clarke looks even more surprised at the words and her voice reflects her expression when she replies, “With you?”

Bellamy finally looks at her then, a ghost of a smile crossing his lips before he answers. 

“No, with Murphy,” he says teasingly which makes Clarke smile too. “How about it princess, one dance for old time’s sake?”

Clarke’s smile gets a little sad around the edges, the same sort of sadness that is brightening Bellamy’s eyes, but she nods too. “Okay.”

Roma watches as her date holds out a hand to this other girl, watches as he draws her up from her chair and leads her out to the dance floor. She sees several pairs of eyes around the room looking at the two intensely but Clarke and Bellamy only seem to have eyes for each other. When Bellamy pulls her in, her small hand tucked into his large one, his other resting warm and open against her back, it is so gentle, so _careful_ , that Roma has to look away.

The song is something slow and instrumental and they sway on the dance floor, darkness and light, looking like they belong together. Roma finds that it isn’t hard to imagine this is _their_ wedding, wonders if that is what they are imagining too. She can see Bellamy’s thumb tracing small circles against Clarke’s back, can see Clarke’s fingers tight around Bellamy’s shoulder like he’s the only thing holding her to the ground, and she hates them both, hates herself for being stupid enough not to see this for what it was earlier. Hates, most of all, that there is a part of her that still can’t leave – that still wants her own chance with Bellamy even though it is increasingly clear she never had one.

When the song ends there is a moment they stay just as they are, simply looking at each other, and Roma finds herself walking across the dance floor to them before she thinks. When she reaches them they both startle and the spell between them is broken. Bellamy drops Clarke’s hand and inches back, and Clarke drops her eyes, smile a little wistful. 

“Thanks for the dance,” she says softly, and then she’s turning and moving through the crowd, Bellamy’s eyes following her until she steps out into the darkness that was Roma’s hiding place only a minute ago.

Only when Clarke is out of sight does Bellamy turn and look at her instead, and the smile he gives her is falsely bright.

“There you are,” he says reaching for her hand. “Do you want to dance?”

Roma is the one who hesitates this time, because she had intended on coming over here to make her excuses, to leave before she gets in any deeper. But Bellamy’s eyes are still bright even if it is with sadness, and his smile is still charming even if it is a mask, and Roma wants him so much, even though she knows she can’t have him, not really. 

“How about we get out of here instead?” she says.

His smile falters briefly, his eyes straying back to the darkness lit with fireflies, but he nods and takes her hand, leading her off the dance floor and back toward the parking lot.

He’s gone in the morning when she wakes up. She isn’t surprised, tries not to feel hurt even though it stings, because she can’t say she didn’t know how this was going to end.

He doesn’t call again.

***

**RAVEN**

“All packed?”

Clarke looks up from the suitcase she is zipping closed, the last item in her now empty bedroom, and returns the smile Raven sends her way.

“Almost.”

It’s hard for Raven to believe that it is all ending today, that after nearly 4 years she and Clarke will no longer be sleeping under the same roof, that her friend will now be a phone call away instead of ten steps down the hall. If she weren’t so proud of Clarke she would be sadder for herself, but as it is she’s trying to keep a brave face for them both.

“Well the moving van just left,” she says, stepping into the room and helping push down the edges of the overfull suitcase so that Clarke can get the zip closed. “They told me to remind you they aren’t going to be at your new place until Saturday at two.”

Clarke nods and blows a strand of hair out of her face as the case finally closes. “I know. I’m going to stop for a night with my mom on the way, so I won’t beat them there by much.”

“How is Abby?” Raven asks, mostly to prolong the moment before they have to start saying their goodbyes though she does genuinely care about Clarke’s mother.

“Oh you know my mom.” Clarke rolls her eyes. “Can’t stop gushing about how proud she is of me and then in the same breath worrying about me all alone in the city.”

Raven laughs because that sounds exactly like Abby. She knows Clarke and her mom have had a strained relationship for years now, ever since Clarke’s father died, but secretly she kind of envies them anyway, issues and all.

“Well, you can tell her we all plan on visiting you constantly so you won’t really be alone all that much,” she promises.

Clarke nods but she looks a little faraway for just a moment as she does it. Raven knows where her mind has gone, knows she is thinking about exactly who _won’t_ be visiting, the same someone who was maybe supposed to have been there as more than a visitor in the first place. 

“Does Abby know?” she asks, and Clarke doesn’t ask her to clarify, just nods.

“Yeah, can’t say she was exactly disappointed to hear about it.”

“I thought she liked Bellamy.”

Clarke looks thoughtful if still a little sad. “I think she wanted to like him,” she says, “She was trying to at least. But when I told her it was over, the first thing she asked me was if I was still moving to Boston. She sounded so fucking relieved when I said yes, and I knew then that she was always afraid that he might hold me back, you know?”

Raven does know, though it makes her think a little less of the woman who is a pseudo mother figure to her. Abby’s own ambition was something she always wanted to see in Clarke and she was always a little disappointed it wasn’t quite as cutthroat in her daughter as she might have hoped. She never would have understood that even if Clarke had stayed it wouldn’t have been because Bellamy held her back but because it was where she herself wanted to be.

“Well I guess she doesn’t have to worry about that now,” Raven says, making Clarke look up from where she’s been contemplating the floor, thoughts turned inward.

“I guess not.”

Raven rolls her eyes because that wasn’t exactly the response she was trying to provoke here.

“Unless, you know, you weren’t sure it was totally over.”

“Raven-“

“I mean, we all saw you at that wedding…”

“Raven-“

“And it isn’t too late to call the movers back, even if it takes them til Saturday at two to get here I’m sure we could find you a bed.”

“Raven!”

Raven stops, feeling a little guilty when she sees the anguish in Clarke’s eyes.

“It’s over,” Clarke says, “It has been for months now. If he wanted it to be any different there’s been plenty of time for him to say so.”

“Plenty of time for you to say so, too,” Raven reminds her, because best friends don’t flinch from pointing out the hard stuff. Not when it matters this much.

“He’s moved on,” Clarke says, her voice only catching a little, “And now so am I.”

“And what if he hasn’t?”

Clarke glares at her.

“I’m just saying,” Raven shrugs, “There were a lot of longing glances at O’s wedding, that has to mean something.”

“At the wedding he brought another girl to,” Clarke reminds her.

“A girl that none of us have heard anything about before or since,” Raven answers.

Clarke rolls her eyes again and doesn’t bother answering. Instead she stands and Raven scoots out of the way so she can lift the suitcase onto its wheels. She stays in her place on the floor as Clarke starts to drag it out into the hall, feeling suddenly very small and alone and wishing that she hadn’t spent any of their last minutes together arguing with her best friend.

“I know you worry about me too,” Clarke says softly and Raven looks up to see her standing in the doorway, looking sad and strong all at once. Raven already misses her like crazy.

“Course I do.”

“I’m going to be okay,” Clarke tells her though her smile trembles around the edges. “I have to be don’t I?”

Raven wants to tell her she doesn’t have to be okay, wants to tell her it doesn’t have to be over, wants to beg her to stay here in their little apartment and just be Raven’s friend as a full time profession. She doesn’t though, because Clarke is one of the bravest people she knows and if she can face this unknown future with her heart cracked then who is Raven to try and hold her back?

“I love you, you know?” she says instead and that breaks the dam of Clarke’s tears as well as her own.

They are both crying and hugging, half standing and half sitting, arms tight around each other.

“How are you not going to be here to feed me ice cream when my date with Wick next week inevitably goes terribly?” Raven asks through muffled tears.

“You’ll Skype me and we will eat ice cream together virtually,” Clarke promises, “And it isn’t going to go terribly.”

“Well then you ought to be here so I can rub it in your face when I have awesome sex,” Raven grumps. Clarke laughs and Raven giggles, and then they are crying again but smiling while they do it.

“I love you too,” Clarke says and squeezes her tight. 

“Stupid boys,” Raven says after another minute of hugging just to hear Clarke laugh.

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees and finally pulls away.

They look at each other for a minute and then stand and Raven helps pull the suitcase down the hall, down the stairs, and out to the waiting car.

“Take care of yourself, princess,” she says when Clarke is all loaded up and sitting in the driver’s seat, ready to go. There aren’t any more tears now, but only because Raven refuses to let them come.

“You too,” Clarke tells her, squeezing her hand once more.

Raven backs away as Clarke starts the engine but Clarke calls out before she drives away.

“Hey Raven?”

“Yeah?”

“Look out for him for me, too, okay?”

Clarke’s voice is teary again, and Raven fights back all the words she wants to say but knows Clarke doesn’t need to hear.

“Okay,” she says instead and Clarke smiles at her one more time before pulling away from the curb.

 

***

 **OCTAVIA**

Her brother looks exhausted, barely dragging himself through the door after another 12 hour shift at the bar, and for a moment she almost hates to bring it up but time really is of the essence here. It may be nearly three in the morning but she’s waited up for him to come home because in less than seven hours the window of opportunity will be closed and she isn’t about to let him miss it just because he’s a little sleepy.

Besides, the only reason he’s been killing himself pulling double shifts all week is to forget about what is happening today so it’s not like it isn’t already on his mind.

She at least lets him get as far as the couch, where he promptly collapses, before she says anything.

“Clarke’s leaving today, you know.”

Bellamy somehow manages to glare at her while never lifting his head from the back of the couch but she ignores him. She’s used to his glares and they aren’t about to scare her off today.

“Well?” she prompts when he doesn’t add anything beyond the scowl to the conversation.

“Well what?” he grumbles shifting until he is laying on the couch lengthwise and closing his eyes to better ignore her.

“Well aren’t you going to do anything about it?”

Bellamy cracks an eye and smirks at her, though it is pasted on, no real bite behind it, which makes it sadder somehow.

“Pretty sure she already hired movers to pack her up, and I’m not really looking to expand my career options that way, sorry sis.”

Octavia huffs and pushes his feet off the end of the couch so she can sit. He glowers again and sticks his feet on her lap instead, boots and all. She pinches his thigh in retaliation because, gross, and his yelp is immensely satisfying.

“You know what I mean,” she presses, smiling sweetly at him while he rubs his leg and gives her a look with some real edge this time.

“I do,” he agrees, “But I’m ignoring you anyway.”

“But why?” she asks pleadingly. “You’ve been so miserable I could barely stand to live with you these past few months, so why don’t you just go make it better already?”

“It doesn’t work like that O,” he sighs. It’s a world weary sound, like he’s had this same argument with her too many times in the past three months, which, of course, he has. 

“It could though, for you two,” she cajoles not willing to give up just yet. Bellamy closes his eyes again and she sighs. “Come on Bell, won’t you at least try?”

“And what?” he asks her, eyes still shut. “Rush over to her apartment and beg her to stay? Ask her to give up Boston, her _future_ , to have another go at a relationship that failed months ago and was probably doomed from the start? Yeah, great plan.”

“Or you could beg her to take you with her,” she says softly, and feels Bellamy stiffen next to her. He doesn’t say anything though so she pushes her advantage and continues. “I’m living with Lincoln now, so you don’t need to keep the house. You could sell it, move with her, start over somewhere new.”

She knows it wouldn’t be just that easy. She knows this house means a lot to both of them, it’s the last tangible connection to their mother that either of them have. It’s where she grew up, where they both did. Where Bellamy raised her. She knows, too, that Bellamy has spent so much of the last ten years taking care of her that he’s never really stopped to think about what he might want for himself, for his future. 

The only thing he’s ever allowed himself to want, purely for himself, is Clarke. And Octavia doesn’t want him to give that up, not when she can’t help but think with Clarke he could learn to start looking at the future differently too.

She wants him so badly to be happy, to have all the love in the world, and she knows, she _knows_ , that despite the way they always fought like cats and dogs, despite the last few months of heartache, that Clarke loves Bellamy just as much as Octavia does. So sue her for wanting that for her brother.

Bellamy is being too quiet though, the scary kind he only ever is when he’s really mad or really sad. He’s been quiet a lot these last few months, and she hates it. This time she feels mostly defeated.

“Bell?”

“I can’t Octavia,” he says finally, and it sounds like an apology.

“Why?”

He pauses again, tries to find the right words, and she grips his jeans between her fingers as she waits.

“It hurt too much when it failed the first time,” he says eventually. “I don’t know that I have it in me to try again.”

“Doesn’t it hurt now though?” she asks gently after a moment’s contemplation herself.

He doesn’t answer, just breathes deep and slow like he does when he’s trying not to cry (she’s only seen him cry a handful of times in his life, and it scares her that he should be so near to it now, after all this time). Eventually he opens his eyes and smiles at her, just a little.

“I gotta get some sleep,” he says then, pushing his booted foot into her thigh gently, just to annoy her.

She sighs, knows he’s avoiding, but doesn’t know what else to say to him. She’s tried so many words over these last few months, with him and with Clarke, but they are both too stubborn and too hurt and too _stupid_ to listen and she doesn’t know if she has anything new in her.

So she lets him stand and ruffle her hair, even though she hates it.

“You staying here tonight?” he asks glancing at the clock and she knows he doesn’t like her driving so late.

“Yeah, I guess,” she answers though she had planned on going home to her new husband. She doesn’t want to add anymore worry to his plate though, and if that means sleeping on the lumpy sofa for a few hours so be it.

“Good,” he says and smiles at her again. It looks brittle, so many of his smiles these days do, and she wonders if there will ever be a time he looks truly and completely happy again. Which is just depressing really, ugh.

“Bellamy?” she calls out before he disappears down the hall and he turns to look at her with eyebrows raised in question. “Raven said she’s leaving at ten. In case you change your mind.”

Even the false smile drops but he nods, which is more than she expected, before turning and disappearing into his room.

Octavia doesn’t get any sleep on the damn lumpy couch that night, and she’s pretty sure Bellamy doesn’t either. She hears him get up around eight, has heard him tossing and turning for hours before that, and her heart soars thinking maybe he is taking her advice after all. But when she drags herself up at half past nine and heads out with the intention of going home she finds him bundled up in his jacket and sitting on the front porch steps instead.

She doesn’t say anything, because there isn’t anything left to say, but she sits next to him and together they wait until ten has come and gone again.

 

***

 

**MONROE**

Monroe has lived in this building for five years now. She moved in right after college, when she opened up her own Aikido studio around the corner. It’s a good place to live, quiet neighbors, decent rent. Most of the people here are old timers, so when the girl across the hall moves in she stands out just by virtue of being under 65.

They aren’t friends or anything. She’d come over to introduce herself a few days after the moving van came, told Monroe she was from Virginia, had just moved here to start her residency at Boston Memorial. Her name is Clarke, and Monroe thinks if they do become friends they can maybe bond over having such unusual first names.

For now though they mostly just nod to each other in the hallway, exchange mail when the postman inevitably puts things in the wrong boxes a few times a week. Monroe even saw Clarke eyeing the flyer for the beginner’s Aikido course she put up in the lobby the other day, so really it’s only a matter of time until they become friends.

She doesn’t think Clarke has many friends. She seems to always be coming from or heading to work, doesn’t go out much otherwise as far as Monroe can tell. She lives alone too, no boyfriend or roommate. She seems lonely, really, and sometimes when Monroe sees her waiting by the elevator after a long shift, eyes closed as she leans against the wall, she thinks Clarke looks a little lost. Like she’s missing something, maybe someone, and is just now learning to live with the absence.

They aren’t friends yet, but Monroe is pretty sure they’re going to be so she feels oddly protective of the girl next door. Which is why when she opens the door for the guy who delivers her groceries every week and sees behind him another figure sitting on the floor and leaning back against Clarke’s door she goes on alert.

She pays for her groceries without making eye contact with the loiterer, pretends not to notice him at all in fact, but once she has the door closed she’s got her eye pressed to the peephole and her phone in her hand, ready to dial 911 if this guy turns out to be a creep. She’s actually pretty sure she could take him herself, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.

It’s one of those days Clarke works a 12 hour shift, so Monroe eventually gets bored waiting to see what happens when she comes home. The longer she watches the less threatening the guy seems. He spends most of his time with his arms braced on his knees, staring at the floor between his feet with a kind of depressed hopelessness that makes Monroe start to kind of want to invite him in for tea instead of kick his ass. 

So she gives up her constant vigil and puts away her groceries and starts her Monday afternoon cleaning routine, though she darts back to the peephole every now and again to see if he’s still there. He always is, and she starts to catalogue him, trying to figure him out by features alone. 

He’s tall, she can tell even though he’s sitting from the way his legs sprawl halfway across the hall. Not a bad build either, though his wrinkled t-shirt and jeans hide any real definition (except for the arms, the arms are nice and visible and she’s only human so of course she notices). His hair hangs into his eyes, dark brown curls against tan skin, but when he looks up every once in a while to glance down the hall toward the elevators she can see a flash of dark eyes and a smattering of freckles across his nose. He’s good looking, not her type really but objectively she can see it.

Mostly what she notices is that he looks lost, the same way Clarke does.

It’s nearly seven when Monroe hears the ping of the elevator doors down the hall (they have shitty insulation in this old building, and _maybe_ she’s been straining to hear the sound for the last half hour or so. So sue her.) In a flash she’s got her eye pressed back against the peephole just in time to see the guy look down the hall.

He goes stiff, his whole body looking both electrified and terrified at once, but he stands up slowly which hides it well. Monroe shifts a little so she can see partway down the hall, not far but far enough to see Clarke frozen in the middle of it staring at the guy like she doesn’t believe – maybe doesn’t want to hope – that it’s actually him. 

Mystery man shoves his hands in his pockets and faces Clarke, head ducking down again so he can hide his eyes behind his curls.

“Bellamy?”

Clarke’s voice is all jagged edges, it sounds like it hurts her to say his name and yet she says it like it’s salvation all the same. 

“Hey.”

Monroe rolls her eyes at the response, because _really_ he waited almost six hours for her and all he has to say for himself is ‘ _hey_ ’?

To Clarke it clearly means more though because she’s got a shaky smile on her face now like she still isn’t quite sure this isn’t a dream but she wants to believe.

“What are you doing here?”

The guy, Bellamy, shrugs, hands still tucked tight in his pockets, and Clarke makes a little frustrated noise which earns her a half hearted glare. The glare only makes her smile bigger though, and Monroe really needs them to be friends soon just so she can hear the whole story here because it’s obviously a good one.

“Bell?” Clarke pushes, clearly not willing to take his shrug for an answer even if he did get a smile out of her.

Bellamy sighs, pulls his hands free and runs one of them through his hair distractedly as he stares at her like he’s trying to find the right words. He sighs again, and this one simply sounds tired.

“I just missed you,” he says quiet and sincere into the hallway between them and Clarke takes a tremulous breath. 

Even through the peephole Monroe can see she’s tearing up. Bellamy runs his hand though his hair again and it’s shaking and then he’s speaking again, words tumbling out faster now like he can’t hold them back now that he’s started.

“I just missed you, Clarke. I missed you and I’m tired of missing you, so do you think I could stop now? Do you think we could just skip to the part where I have you back again instead? Please?”

Monroe whips her eyes back to Clarke with bated breath. This is better than the shitty soap operas her sister got her addicted to and her heart is pounding waiting for Clarke’s answer. _Say yes, say yes_ she chants in her head.

Clarke makes a sound that is half laugh half sob and runs a hand under her eyes to try and wipe away the tears that have started. 

“Yeah, we can do that,” she tells him, and then she’s laughing again at his blazing grin and they’re practically running toward each other. It’s just like the movies, better than really, when they meet in the middle of the hall and he sweeps her up in his arms and cradles her close, Clarke’s arms around his neck tight, and they are both laughing now and crying too, and kissing, and Monroe finds she has a giddy grin of her own.

“I love you,” Bellamy says. 

It’s muffled into Clarke’s hair but Monroe hears it still and so does Clarke. She pulls back and looks him in the eye with her whole heart in her own and says, “I love you too.”

There’s a lot more kissing after that, and eventually Monroe decides she should probably stop watching. Just in time too, if the moans coming from the hallway are any indication. She can hear Clarke’s door slam open and then shut again a minute later and she finds herself whistling happily as she starts her tea. 

She and Clarke are going to be friends, she’s decided for sure now, but she’s gonna give it a few days before she knocks on that door again just to be safe.


End file.
